


The Very First Night of the Rest of their Lives

by 7Angel_Tongue7



Series: Table-Legs and Buttered Bread [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexuality, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), British Manners!, Communication, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), M/M, Queer Themes, Romance, Show-Relationship-But-Book-References!, Show-and-book-accurate alcohol consumption, The Great Silence (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Victorian Euphemisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7Angel_Tongue7/pseuds/7Angel_Tongue7
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley arrive at Crowley's flat the night after the end of the world and have an important conversation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Table-Legs and Buttered Bread [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020652
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	The Very First Night of the Rest of their Lives

It’s the night after the end of the world. Crowley and Aziraphale have arrived at the front door of Crowley’s flat. It was a long bus ride to London, working out what to do in the morning, and they’re both tired. Aziraphale is trying – unsuccessfully – not to think about all the books that burnt with his bookshop. Crowley is fumbling with his keys. 

‘Here, allow me –‘  
Aziraphale miracles the door open. Crowley looks at him blankly.  
‘Oh right.’  
He pushes the door open. Pauses. There’s a brief scuffle as both try to make the other go in first. Crowley wins. It’s his home, after all.  
‘Well – this is me.’  
‘Yes, yes’  
Aziraphale is distracted.  
‘Drink?’  
‘Goodness, yes.’  
Crowley goes to the bar by the side of the lounge, taking off his sunglasses. Aziraphale spins around.  
‘It’s very… nice.’ Aziraphale says.  
‘…yeah.’  
‘Very clean…’  
Crowley brings Aziraphale his drink. He takes it. Without talking, they sit down together, side by side.  
‘Well,’ says Crowley.  
‘What was that, my dear?’  
‘I just said, ‘well,’ angel…’  
‘Oh yes. Well.’  
‘It’s been… a week.’  
‘You could say so.’

Crowley pours them both a second round of drinks. They look at the drinks. They drink the drinks. The bottles wink at them from the counter. Eventually, Crowley says,  
‘Angel?’  
‘Yes, dear?’  
‘Do you…’  
He stops. The question is awfully needy. Even the alcohol warming him from toe to fingertip hasn’t loosened his demonic nerves quite enough to ask it.  
‘Do I – what?’  
Crowley stares at his drink. Right. The thing is. It’s hard to break a ‘great silence.’ (Crowley has been calling the silence about his and Aziraphale’s relationship ‘the Great Silence’ since the 1780s – that horrified expression, Aziraphale saying ‘I don’t even like you.’) But still – Crowley thinks – I want to ask – what am I to you? Crowley’s demonic instincts are honed enough to know he has an in with Aziraphale. But the angel never wants to talk about it – not the Arrangement, not their dinners together, long evenings drinking, those meetings late at night while they were watching Warlock grow, in the garden, when it was all dark and Crowley was in a skirt, and Aziraphale had been in that awful gardener’s costume, and had kept taking off his hat… 

There are another few rounds. Then, suddenly, Aziraphale is talking.  
‘Crowley?’  
‘Yeah?’  
‘I wanted to say thank you.’  
Crowley straightens, alarmed.  
‘What on earth for?’  
‘Well, you know.’  
‘No, I don’t.’  
‘Oh – rescuing Agnes Nutter’s book I suppose. Letting me stay here tonight.’  
‘Don’t mention it.’

Crowley pours more drinks. They look at the drinks. They drink the drinks.  
‘Thing is, angel,’ Crowley says.  
Aziraphale is looking more relaxed – almost like normal – almost like before Crowley shouted at him, before Alpha Centuri. He’s never been in Crowley’s flat before. They’ve always done their drinking at the bookshop.  
‘Thing is,’ Crowley says again, ‘I – well – I told you I supp’se.’  
‘Told me what?’  
Crowley takes a deep breath.  
‘I lost my best friend.’  
Aziraphale is looking tense again. Oh, dear, this was a terrible idea.  
‘Yes, I’m dreadfully sorry. I haven’t asked about that, have I?’  
He stops. Crowley frowns.  
‘Why d’you need to ask?’  
‘Well, you did look very upset. Who was it?’  
‘What?’  
‘Who was it who died?’  
Crowley blinks, sits up and leans forward. He’s angry.  
‘What? You… you, great big idiot!’  
Aziraphale flinches. Crowley backpedals…  
‘Oh – I don’t mean – oh, angel. I meant you, you – you …!’  
Aziraphale freezes. 

Crowley pours them both another drink. They look at the drinks. They drink the drinks. Crowley drinks his all in one swallow.  
‘Oh, bother it,’ Crowley mutters. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’  
He reaches across to Aziraphale and takes his hand.  
‘Angel. I’m in love with you.’  
Aziraphale’s face is blank. Crowley drops his hand and backs off, turns away a bit.  
‘Y’ don’t have to feel the same way of course – I know – it’s – an angel and a demon – do angels even – you don’t need to – ignore that.’  
‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale interrupts ‘Crowley, it’s not that. Of course, I love you.’  
Crowley goes quiet. Aziraphale has moved to the other side of the couch.  
‘Well, it’s just, you see.’ He stops. ‘I’m saying it wrong. You’re a demon.’  
‘Yes, yes,’ Crowley’s puzzled ‘we’re hereditary…’  
‘No, no, I mean – I don’t mean that.’  
‘What d’you mean?’  
‘Well – it’s just – I’ve always had the impression – of course maybe this is completely wrong of me. Well, that you rather liked – well – the natural end-point…? Going over the bridge to Pimpleton?’  
Crowley looks blank.  
‘Amorous congress. Basket-making, bread-and-butter… Well, you know.’  
Aziraphale looks a little desperate. Crowley blinks. He pours more drinks.  
‘D’you really call sex, bread-and-butter, angel?’ he asks.  
Then he reconsiders.  
‘Are you asking whether I like sex? Or whether I want to have sex with you?’  
Aziraphale is bright red and won’t meet Crowley’s eyes. He pours more drinks. There have been rather more than seven rounds now.  
‘Both.’  
‘Well.’  
Crowley thinks about angels, and about bodies, and his body, and what he’s done with it over the centuries – a few quick temptations, fewer than expected, especially after he developed his mass tinge of evil style of work, disabling the mobile networks round London – but also about the long afternoons on the Number 7 bus, passing messages between newspapers, Aziraphale’s long fingers, Aziraphale eating a slice of cake in a midnight café. He starts again.  
‘I’m in love with you, angel. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t need – sex – to feel happy. I do need to know if you also want – what I want. To build a life together. To – dine at the Ritz. To sleep in together, maybe to cuddle. Nothing you don’t want. But y’know.’  
Aziraphale looks relieved.  
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘Right. Of course – but you said…’  
‘What?’  
‘Well, you said ‘I’m in love with you.’’  
‘Yeah, I did.’  
‘Well. I mean. Goodness. Isn’t… that what humans do? When they fall in love?’  
‘Not all humans. Anyway, we’re not, are we? We’re you and me. We can do what we like.’  
‘Oh. Well, that’s all right then.’

Crowley pours more drinks. They look at the drinks. They drink the drinks.  
‘There are humans like you, y’know angel.’  
‘Really?’  
‘Some humans don’t want to have sex either. Thought that was one of the things heaven approved of anyway…’  
‘Well, certainly. I mean, not needing sex… sort of, giving it up, certainly we’re – they’re in favour of that. Though Gabriel finds that hot-married-sex line some of the preachers get from Song of Songs very modern. Good for the image, he says. Giving sex to your spouse to build the relationship, that kind of thing. Selflessness, sacrifice – the great onward march of heaven. Not that one would do such things in heaven of course. No marrying or giving in marriage.’

Another round of drinks follows this announcement.  
‘Right,’ Crowley says. He thinks they’ve become somewhat side-tracked, ‘Anyway, angel, what I mean is…’ He stops. He’s had a bit too much now. ‘What I mean is… there’s humans feel the same way. No sex but – you can still love someone. Want, maybe, to kiss them, cuddle, you know. Think about them – your one and only.’  
Aziraphale sways a little trying to get another drink. Crowley catches him.  
‘C’n we sober up, angel?’ he asks.  
‘Must we?’  
‘Yeah, come on. Want to ask you something.’  
The bottles on Crowley’s counter refill slowly. The two blink, reeling. Aziraphale realises he’s in Crowley’s arms. Crowley strokes his cheek.  
‘How’d you feel about cuddles, angel.’ he asks.  
‘Oh,’ Aziraphale smiles, ‘Splendid. I feel splendid.’

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever fan-fic! Thank you for reading. I had a lot of fun writing it - and I have two more to come. You'll have noticed that, my my head-canon, Aziraphale and Crowley don't exactly have a human kind of sexuality, though they come close to several different categories - which I explore more in my next story. I find this liberating, affirming - and fun. I hope you do too. And yes, the euphemisms Aziraphale uses really are some Victorian words for sex! I make reference to this in my series title, because the words we use for things have power, and change how we see things, and because I like the idea that Aziraphale would put pants on his table-legs. Not because he's repressed, but because he's just like that at heart. Himself.


End file.
